


will wonders ever cease

by mintleafs



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Actual literal years of pining, Getting Together, Lily is tired of them, Lots and lots of Pining, Mutual Pining, Technically also Albus/Male OC but that doesn't last long at all, These Boys are a MESS, and Scorpius being oblivious to it all, mostly Albus avoiding his own feelings like the plague
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-19 22:17:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14246895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mintleafs/pseuds/mintleafs
Summary: Albus marvels at how quick Scorpius is to forgive him, to let it go, and he feels bad about it, for some reason. Maybe he'd hurt Scorpius so badly that he needed a reason to forget, but it doesn’t seem like that. Scorpius isn’t holding him in any different regard. Everything is back to the way it was before. It’s just how Albus wants it to be.And yet something still throbs in his chest, and not even the sound of Scorpius’ laughter is enough to drown the steady echoes of his lingering headache.





	will wonders ever cease

**Author's Note:**

> Based off the prompt: "I can't keep kissing strangers and pretending that they're you."
> 
> Title and quote are from the song [Mystery of Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N0CP9zpbmAQ%22) by Sufjan Stevens.

 

 

_Oh, will wonders ever cease?  
Blessed be the mystery of love _

*******

Albus decides that Devon MacMillan will do when he spots Scorpius in the corner with his hands on some Ravenclaw’s waist, swaying to the near-painful thrum of music reverberating throughout the entire common room.

Devon McMillan is a complete mystery to Albus—save for the time they’d been Herbology partners in third year, they hadn’t spoken a word to each other yet. But Devon’s tall, with a lanky build, skin that bordered on dark, and hair just a shade below white-blonde. And Albus is buzzed, a firewhiskey shot and a couple beers away from incoherence.

So, yes. Devon will do.

Straightening his shoulders, Albus manages to summon enough drunk confidence to avoid making a complete fool of himself as he saunters over to where Devon stands against the wall, watching the party with narrow eyes and furrowed brows. His lips are puckered slightly, pink and chapped, just like—just like _his._

A smile falls upon Albus's lips. “You don’t look very happy to be here.”

Devon shrugs. “I’m not. Got dragged along by a friend who is—” he leans to the side to look past Albus’s shoulder, “—currently attempting to dance with his shirt off.”

“Mm,” Albus responds, cocking his head to the side. “If I were you, I’d be taking major blackmail photos right now.”

“Well, that’s the difference between you and me,” Devon says, but his frown has lightened a bit. “I’m a Hufflepuff. You’re a Slytherin.”

As minutely as Drunk Albus can manage, he leans closer to Devon. “So? We’re known to get along, aren’t we?”

A snort escapes Devon. “You want to snog me. And, you’re drunk.”

Albus shakes his head, scrunching up his face. “Nah, I’m not. Not enough, anyways. But you’re right, so—you up for it?”

Devon shrugs, yet again. Always that shrug. It occurs to Albus that he doesn’t know Devon, will probably never know Devon, but he pushes the thought from his mind before he can mull it over too much.

“Sure.” And they’re off.

The next morning, he wakes up in an alcove by the Ravenclaw tower, with Devon McMillan lying at his side in a rather uncomfortable position. It’s Sunday—Albus doesn’t worry too much about what he’s missed, so he shakes Devon’s shoulder to wake him up, pulls up and buckles his trousers, and heads to the Slytherin dorms. His head throbs, but he’s sure that Scorpius will have some hangover potion; he always was the more responsible of the two.

To his surprise, he isn’t greeted with a good morning, or so much as a smile from Scorpius. Instead, he enters the common room to the sounds of wolf-whistles and a few cat-calls from his dear fellow Slytherins, before locating Scorpius in their usual corner, by the large windows opening up to the lake. Albus sets a smile on his face, easy, smooth, but Scorpius purses his lips, and doesn’t bother to meet his eyes.

“Can I speak to you?” he asks. “In private?”

Albus says yes without a second thought.

“D-did you not think to maybe warn me you’d be running off with some guy all night?” is the question Scorpius’ asks him in the relative privacy of Albus's four-poster. “And, I know I have no control or right over what you do, or whatever, but it would’ve been nice to know instead of worrying all night if you’d been killed or something.”

Albus swallows thickly. “I—c’mon, Scorpius… I was just having fun.”

“So was I, and I stopped to look for _you._ ”

The look on Scorpius’ face hasn’t loosened in the slightest. There’s still a knot between his brows, and his lips curled into a grimace. Albus thinks back to the Ravenclaw with the small waist. He thinks back to Scorpius’ hands. He glares back.

“God, sorry for contractually obligating you to look after me 24/7,” he snapped. “I’ll be sure to make amendments in the next draft of our fucking friendship.”

“Don’t be like that, Albus.”

“Be like what? Don’t be mad because that Ravenclaw you were with didn’t want to fuck you like Devon McMillan wanted to fuck me.”

“Like _that_ ,” Scorpius says. He stares, his eyes wide, as if he were shocked.

His hands, running up the Ravenclaw’s shirt. Scorpius, his mouth pressed against someone else’s, someone foreign—a stranger. His very own Devon McMillan.

“Just stay out of my love life, okay?” Albus mutters, rolling his eyes. “And don’t try to protect me. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” Scorpius nods. “Okay.”

And that’s the end of that.

*******

“You and Malfoy have a row?” Frank asks, shoving the stub of his cigarette into the white bark of the tree, leaving a small, burnt circle right above Albus's shoulder.

Albus sighs, snatching the pack of cigarettes from Frank’s pocket and using his wand to light one. It burns all the way into his lungs—he usually only smokes when he’s distressed, and things have been okay for a while now—but he fights back the urge to cough and tilts his head back, letting the cool air settle down onto his collarbones.

They’re far enough away from the castle that no teacher would catch them, but close enough to see the tiny figures of students ambling around the grounds, searching for something to do on a Sunday afternoon.

“Potter? Did you or did you not—”

“Fuck off, Longbottom,” Albus mutters, flicking ashes in his friend’s general direction. Frank scoffs indignantly, dusting the ash off his knee.

“So you _did_.”

Rolling his eyes, Albus looks over at Frank, taking in every bit of his appearance with an exasperated look on his face. The deep brown hair, dark skin, darker than his, and hazel eyes—he’s not at all close to what Albus wants. But he’s pretty, nonetheless.

“Anyone ever told you you’re an annoying piece of shit?”

“It’s been mentioned. And you hang out with me despite it, so, says a little about your standards, doesn’t it?” Frank leans forward and grabs the cigarette from between his fingers, smirking as Albus raises his middle finger.

“Yeah, well, it’s hard to find anyone who’s less of a piece of shit than you. You’re the bare minimum.” Albus makes it a point to wink at him, accepting the cigarette back as Frank holds it out. Frank laughs, pushing the smoke out of his face with his breath and placing his hand on Albus's thigh.

“You’re a charmer, Potter,” he says, lifting a hand to push his wild, dark hair back.

Albus shrugs. “When I try to be.”

“Are you trying to be?”

“Don’t know.” Albus breathes out slowly. “You feel like getting up to anything?”

Frank cocks his head to the side. “Thought I wasn’t your type.”

“Who’s my type?” Albus asks, as if he doesn’t know the answer. As if nearly everybody doesn’t know by now, too.

“Scorpius Malfoy. And any poor bloke who looks like him.”

When Albus doesn’t respond, Frank smiles, but it’s small and sad. “You know, I’m your friend, Potter. And as your friend I’m telling you that I know you’ve been in love with Malfoy since you were eleven.”

Words are lost to him for a few moments, and he doesn’t know what else to do, so he laughs. But something aches at the bottom of his chest, and it takes an amplitude of effort not to let tears well up behind his eyelids. Frank probably notices, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s good like that, gentle and witty and very, very accommodating. He thinks that if he didn’t already have Scorpius, Frank might’ve been his best friend.

“Everyone knows. Everyone but him.” He inhales deeply, and doesn’t bother trying to stem the few coughs that escape him.

“For the top of the class, Malfoy sure is a fucking idiot,” Frank muses, glancing over at Albus. “But he’s your idiot. And I’m sorry.”

Albus leans forward, his eyelashes fluttering. “Don’t be sorry. Just kiss me.”

A second passes, and Frank eyes him uncertainly, but something clouds over his gaze and he leans forward, pressing his lips to Albus’s. Albus responds slowly, leaning into it and then pulling back slightly, not enough to separate them. He opens his mouth slightly, allowing Frank to slip his tongue into his mouth. Making a content noise at the back of his throat, Frank reaches up and places one hand on Albus's shoulder, the other on the back of his head.

Frank pulls back, an easy grin spread across his mouth. “Don’t fall in love with me, Potter.”

“Can’t,” Albus murmurs back, letting something playful flicker across his face. “You’re not really my type.”

*******

An awful feeling blossoms underneath his temples as soon as he’s finished snogging the life out of Frank Longbottom II underneath that tree by the far shore of the Black Lake. He’s bitterly grateful that the headache waited as long as it did to come, and he takes his leave from Frank, claiming homework responsibilities. He barely makes it to the common room before he has to collapse onto a quiet seat in the corner and cradle his head in his hands, willing away the throbbing pain with everything in him.

Balefully, he glares up at the ceiling of the common room, as if to ask the universe whether or not this is retribution for… _something_. For being a liar, or a coward, or the endless list of bad things which he is—up to and including being a bad fucking friend.

From the moment he snapped at Scorpius, he had regretted it. After all, it isn’t like Scorpius never looks out for him in those types of situations. They have a system, by now, which includes Albus telling Scorpius who he’s running off with and where, and Scorpius doing the same, so that way, no matter who they end up with, they always come back to each other in the end.

It’s cruel, almost. To make him play a game like that.

What he should’ve done was play it calmly, like he usually does, trying his hardest not to flinch when Scorpius names another faceless student, and Albus can’t help but imagine how much of a privilege it would be just to take the place of that student, if only for a few seconds. But at this party, he was tipsy and awful and in the worst mood possible, and he couldn’t bear to hear a name come out of Scorpius’ mouth if it didn’t belong to him.

So. He’s a jealous prat, and now, he has to apologise. Fucking brilliant.

Sighing, he throws his head back and tugs at his unruly hair, contemplating the absolute ridiculousness of begging the universe for a break.

“Potter, the fuck is up with you?” shouts Jacob Penley, a snooty boy that Albus can enjoy the company of in rare and short bursts of pretentiousness. “Did someone shove a dick up your arse?”

The few people in the common room chuckle at that, and Albus smiles—there’s no malice behind his words, thankfully. That much can be said about his fellow Slytherins; they really do take care of their own.

“Only your dad,” he retorts, and flips Penley the bird before pushing himself out of his chair and exiting the common room with the sound of jeering teenagers trailing behind him.

After wandering around for a while, he finds himself in the library, searching for Scorpius’ familiar figure, probably hunched over some book he’s read a million times already. That’s what he does when he’s upset—Albus thinks it’s absolutely precious, but he doesn’t want to dwell on that too much. He’s here to save his _friendship,_ not his relationship. Overthinking it will just make everything worse.

Eventually, he tiptoes his way to the very back of the middle row of books, where Scorpius’ favorite table is. It’s a small table, only room for two people, and Albus is usually sat there with him, reading or doing homework or just keeping him company. But now, as he peers around the shelf, he sees that Scorpius is alone, and his eyes are rimmed red.

He bites back a gasp, because Scorpius hasn’t noticed him yet, and he needs a moment. It’s not that he never sees Scorpius cry; he’s a fairly easy crier, and people give him a tough time a lot. So, the crying wouldn’t normally bother him, except that now it’s _his_ fault. Albus did that. He made his best friend cry.

With an even more awful feeling than before sprouting in his chest and climbing all the way to his head, he steps out from beside the shelf, clearing his throat. Scorpius jumps slightly, looking up. When he meets Albus's eyes, he flushes and turns away, sniffling.

“Hey,” Albus says, stepping forward and pulling the chair from the opposite side of the table out, taking a seat.

Scorpius stares at the table for a few more seconds, but eventually chokes out a meager, “Hi.”

“Look, I—” Albus begins, but then pauses, taking a deep breath. He continues quietly, “I didn’t mean to upset you. I shouldn’t have snapped.”

Scorpius hesitates for a moment, pressing his lips into a thin line. After a few moments, he shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have.”

Albus doesn’t know what to say to that, so he remains silent, waiting for Scorpius to say something. Eventually he does, and his tone is so confused and hurt that he almost feels like crying himself.

“I thought we looked out for each other. I thought that was what we did.”

“It is. I was just cranky. Hungover. I didn’t mean it.”

“But you _did,_ ” Scorpius insists. “I can tell when you’re lying, you know.”

Albus slumps in his seat. “Can you.”

They both take a moment to look at each other, then. Albus sees the same beautiful face he’s been in love with for years, but it’s different, in a way. Slightly broken, and torn, and visibly distressed. But also calm, all thin, soft lines and rounded features. Achingly pretty, and so far out of his reach.

“Are you really sorry?” Scorpius asks, blinking rapidly. A tear rolls down his cheek, and Albus doesn’t understand why, but he doesn’t say anything. He just nods, hoping Scorpius won’t notice that he can’t rip his eyes away from his mouth.

“Alright,” Scorpius murmurs. “I believe you.”

They walk back to the common room together.

It begins tentatively, with Albus asking how his day went, bar the row they seemed to have had, and Scorpius answers truthfully, because he’s good like that. Albus makes another sort of pseudo-apology when they’re both settled in Scorpius’ four-poster, potions essays out and ink pots carefully balanced with a mixture of magic and hope.

Scorpius looks at him, the sadness gone from his eyes, and smiles. “Enough, Al. Just help me start this essay—you were always better at structure than I was.” 

Albus marvels at how quick Scorpius is to forgive him, to let it go, and he feels bad about it, for some reason. Maybe he'd hurt Scorpius so badly that he needed a reason to forget, but it doesn’t seem like that. Scorpius isn’t holding him in any different regard. Everything is back to the way it was before. It’s just how Albus wants it to be.

And yet something still throbs in his chest, and not even the sound of Scorpius’ laughter is enough to drown the steady echoes of his lingering headache.

*******

Eventually, he goes to Lily for advice.

“As you know, I’ve loved him since I was eleven,” he says in a casual tone, seeing as it’s common knowledge around Hogwarts to pretty much anyone who isn’t Scorpius. And if anyone in his family would happen to know, it’s Lily. She has all the tenacity of a Slytherin and none of the tact. It’s refreshing, sometimes.

Sometimes.

Lily laughs brightly. “Yeah, I know, Al, like I have since I was nine. Don’t tell me you’re asking me to be your secret keeper, cause that cat’s been out of the bag for a while now.”

Albus rolls his eyes, letting a smile slip onto his face. “Fuck off, Lils. I came here for _advice._ ”

“Ask James.” She shrugs and tears off the leg of a chocolate frog with her teeth, her long hair swinging in response.

“James is a prat.”

“So am I. So are you. It’s kind of a recurring theme.”

Sighing, Albus flicks her knee. “Look, just—I had a row with Scorpius, and things are… complicated.”

At this she raises her eyebrows, her mouth forming an ‘o’ shape. “Wow, I didn’t know you two could disagree on anything. Do you need help making up?”

He shakes his head. “No, we made up earlier today.”

Lily scrunches up her nose. “Well, then—what is it you want from me again?”

A somber expression suddenly overtakes him before he can stop it, and the easy grin slips from Lily’s face in an instant.

“Hey, seriously—are you okay, Al? I can kick his arse for you, you know.”

“That’s not necessary,” Albus says, exasperated but fond. “If anyone needs an arse-kicking, it’s me, because I’m a jealous twat who can’t get over his stupid crush on his best friend.”

Lily scoffs, shaking her head. “The fact that you still think it’s just a crush kind of proves you’re a twat.”

“Well, I have to, don’t I? Otherwise, I’ll start to hope that… that he might feel the same one day, and I can’t do that to myself.”

As if in disapproval, Lily sighs, but shrugs her shoulders, her long red hair swaying behind her. “I don’t know. I don’t think it’s so wild to imagine he might like you back.”

Albus snorts. “He’d tell me about it. He’s horrible at secrets.”

“Ah, yes, as compared to you, Ultimate Secret-Keeper Supreme. Sure, maybe only one person doesn’t know your secret in this whole castle, but it’s a damn _important_ person.”

He groans, burying his face in his hands as Lily collapses into giggles. She reaches out and pats his head, smiling patiently.

“Look, I’m not really sure what your problem is, like, exactly. But I’m going to tell you everything we’ve all been thinking since you two met—tell him how you feel.”

Albus, still hunched over, manages to say, “I’d rather actually die.”

“Then perish,” Lily says calmly. “But, in all honesty, I think it’s your only shot. Whether or not he likes you back—well, that’s between the two of you, but it’ll take all that weight off your chest, Al. Don’t you want it to be gone?”

“Yeah,” Albus mutters. “I do.”

She kicks him out of the Gryffindor common room with a hug and a swift hit to the back of the head, and he fondly yanks her hair before making his way back to dorms, walking slowly with his hands in his pockets. For a brief moment, he considers that it might be wise just to tell Scorpius, to be honest and kind, just like Scorpius would be.

But the thought of Scorpius grimacing, getting that sweet look of pity in his eyes and having to say, “Al, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry, but I don’t love you like you love me—”

It makes his stomach twist violently, bile rising up in his throat. If he said anything, it might ruin their friendship.  Albus would rather be _something_ to Scorpius, even if he isn’t everything, even if he isn’t much. He isn’t much to anybody these days, but people have moved forward from these things, and he will too. He’ll find some way to tether himself to a brighter tomorrow, maybe with someone else, and it might not be perfect, but it’ll be enough.

 _Enough_. He repeats it like a mantra in his head all the way back to the common room, up until he’s lying in his four-poster alone. He casts silencing charms for some reason, and with a deep-seated hurt growing in his chest, he says it:

_Enough. Enough. Enough._

And the world around him has never felt like less.  

*******

Albus dreams of Scorpius that night.

It’s the day they first met, and Albus knocks on the door of a compartment nobody else dares to. He sits with Scorpius Malfoy for the sole reason that he knows what it’s like to be lonely, even when he’s surrounded by other people.

“H-hello, um, I’m Scorpius,” he hears a gentle voice say. Scorpius extends his hand, smiling shyly, beautifully, and Albus thinks that he has never felt love like this.

“Albus,” he says breathlessly. “It’s nice to meet you.”

But the ground disappears before Scorpius can reply, and suddenly it’s a year later. They’re sitting in the common room during Christmas, because Albus had a row with his dad and he can’t face him, not now. Scorpius is here with him, and he’s smiling, laughing, and making it exceptionally easy to pretend that everything is good.

“If only you had more friends, they’d be better company than just me,” Scorpius says, and it breaks Albus's heart.

“I don’t need friends, just you,” Albus confesses, and Scorpius blushes and wraps his arms around him, but the weight of their fondness is too much, because the ground breaks again, and this time they’re sitting in Albus's backyard, staring at an orange-and-purple sunset, their words muddled with the unreliability of memory. Albus finds the same feeling inside himself which he felt that night, a feeling closer to home than he thinks he’s ever been. There’s a deep, unseated hunger in his chest, and he feels himself leaning towards Scorpius slowly, easily.

“You’re lovely,” he whispers, but Scorpius doesn’t hear him, and his fleeting confidence isn’t enough to keep the ground from crumbling once again. This time, he doesn’t land, he doesn’t see Scorpius, he doesn’t see anything. He just falls, and falls, and falls.

Albus wakes with a start.

*******

For a few, bleak instants, he tries to fall back asleep.

His head is pounding, as if there were something trying to burst out from his forehead, and sleep does not want to reach out for him. He hasn’t felt the need to cry so badly in a long time, but the unfilled fracture in his resolve doesn’t waver, not even now. There isn’t anything he can do but lie there, and hope, and dream.

But that isn’t good enough. He’s not quite sure what propels him to stand, to walk over to Scorpius’ four-poster and slide the curtains open, but his legs and arms move independently, as if someone had cast Imperius on him.

In the darkness he can barely see anything but the glint of Scorpius’ pale hair, yet he knows that Scorpius looks as nice as he always does. He could never look anything less than that, for Albus. It’s him, after all. It always has been.

He shakes Scorpius’ shoulder.

Scorpius stirs, lets out a small, slurred hum and turns. Albus has the good sense to light his wand dimly so that Scorpius knows it’s him.

(And who else would it be? Who else would wake him so gently? Who else would wake him at all?)

“Hi,” he says, his voice breaking.

“Albus,” Scorpius murmurs, propping himself on his elbows. “It’s late. What’s wrong?”

“I—I—” Albus shuts his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Scorpius sits up, rubbing at his eyes. “I know, Al.”

Something inside him breaks. Albus bursts into tears. It’s not loud by any means—he’s just standing there, unsure of what to do, staring down at Scorpius with a stinging wetness sliding down his cheeks. Scorpius stares back, his eyes wide and lips parted, and he pulls Albus down onto the four-poster, shutting the curtains and lifting his wand to cast a silencing charm.

“Al? What’s wrong? I forgive you,” he says, reaching out and putting his hands on Albus's shoulders. “It’s okay, you don’t have to cry.”

“It’s not—no, no,” Albus chokes out, hanging his head. He’s trembling, and every single inch of him feels as though it’s being tugged down into the ground.

“Is it…” Scorpius grabs his chin, forcing Albus to meet his gaze. “This isn’t about our fight, is it?”

“I can’t keep…” Albus raises his palm and presses it against his chest, hoping to quell the overwhelming ache that still lingers around him. It doesn’t work, and all it does is make Scorpius stare at his hand, at his heart, and furrow his brow.

“Look, look, Al,” he whispers, “just stay here, okay? I’ve got you. Just go to bed. We can talk about it in the morning, okay? Come on, lay down.”

Albus obeys, letting Scorpius pull him down until he’s laying on his side, facing Scorpius, feeling all the love and hurt and longing there is to feel in all the world. Scorpius cups his face in his hands and breathes out, slowly, rubbing circles into Albus's cheekbones and humming.

“It’s okay,” he says, “it’s okay.”

Albus shakes his head, but the lump in his throat grows until it is all he is, and the real Albus is floating around somewhere, watching this all happen from a distance. It’s almost everything he could’ve hoped for, he thinks—letting the tide of sleep pull him in as he lays in Scorpius’ arms, safer than he’s ever been. He’s never felt warmer, more comforted, but still an abstract fear looms above him, and he worries that the ground might crumble, and he’ll have to wake from this dream, too.

*******

“So,” is the only thing Albus can bring himself to say, first thing in the morning. The curtains are open, but there’s no one else in the room, and he distinctly remembers that it’s been two days since that bloody party and so—

Scorpius is here, with him, all alone. It’s Monday. And he hates skipping class.

If Albus's face gives anything away, Scorpius doesn’t make it clear. He just stares back at Albus with an odd expression, his features caught between pain and curiosity and a deep, deep sadness.

“What’s wrong,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like a question. More of a demand. His eyebrow twitches, though his expression doesn’t change, and a thrum tears through Albus's chest as he thinks that last night was the first time Scorpius had ever seen him cry.

He could lie about it. After all, this is a secret he’s kept for years. It’s the most heavily protected thing inside of him, and lying about it to Scorpius, to himself—it’s become a brutal instinct, almost carnal. But it’s gentle, too, because Scorpius is right _there_ , close enough to reach out and grab and hold, and yet he’s still somehow out of reach, and it hurts Albus more than anything has ever hurt him before.

So, yes, he could lie, but a tiny part of himself crumbles under the realisation that Scorpius can tell. He’s always been able to. There used to be things that remained unspoken, even between them, but he supposes there can’t be anymore.

“I was having… a moment,” Albus mutters, sitting up and pulling his knees up to his chest. He can’t stand the taste of his own mouth, so he fumbles around the sheets for his wand and casts a mouth-cleaning charm on himself.

“Bull-fucking-shit,” Scorpius says. “I’ve seen you having a moment. That wasn’t it. That was as if someone had taken all your moments and smushed them together, and you just couldn’t handle it. I’ve never seen you like that.”

“I just wanted to apologise.”

“You never want to apologise,” Scorpius slides down from where he was perched on the footboard of the bed, scooting closer to Albus. “That apology wasn’t for our fight, it was for something else. What?”

His eyes search for a reaction in Albus's face, and he looks lovely like this, wide-eyed and worried. Albus wants to kiss him. For years, Albus has wanted to kiss him. Of all the kisses he’s shared, with strangers and friends alike, none of them could ever or would ever be as perfect as one he might ever share with Scorpius.

Like water rising up from a clogged drain, Albus feels a confession rising up in his chest, and he closes his eyes and hangs his head, because there’s no way he can stop himself now.

“I’m sorry I fell in love with you,” he says, and Scorpius leans back slightly, his eyes widening and lips parting. Albus continues, lifting his gaze and meeting Scorpius’ eyes, wondering if this is the last time he ever will, “I’m sorry that I want to kiss you, and hug you, and hold you—I am sorry that I’ve loved you since I was eleven, I’m sorry that I can’t stop.”

“Albus,” Scorpius whispers, and it’s him that sounds breathless this time.

“And I—I guess I’m sorry that I—that I can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending that they’re you.”

Once he’s let go of that, of the enormous weight dragging all his dreams down, there’s nothing to hold him in the moment, in himself, or to Scorpius. But Albus is a coward, because the look on Scorpius’s face is shocked and lovely and _terrifying_ , and he can’t think of anything else to do rather than run away from what he’s just done.

Scorpius calls out after him, but he can’t hear anything except for the pounding of his chest and his panicked, shallow breaths. He sprints past the common room, out of the dungeons, through the empty halls and finds himself pacing in front of a corridor on the seventh floor, wishing for a place to hide _._ When he opens his eyes, there’s a rickety, small door in front of him, and he quickly ducks inside and shuts it, leaning against the doorway and placing his hands on his knees.

He barely notices, but the room is an exact replica of his bedroom back at home. All the posters, knick-knacks—everything, just as he left it. It should be comforting, he thinks, but it isn’t. It feels false and _wrong._ He almost can’t bear to look at it.

There’s a weighted ache hanging on his chest as he realises that he’s just lost the person he cares about the most because he’s selfish. His resolve, that thing in him that always propelled him to believe that being friends was enough, was better than nothing—it broke, somehow, and now he’s stuck with nothing but pieces of what his life used to be, fractured memories of random guys with pretty, all-too-familiar faces, and a bitter and empty resignation.

For the second time, Albus finds himself dissolving into tears.

This time, however, there is no reservation, nothing to stop him from losing what little control he had the night before. He wails and sobs, allowing all the frustration to burst from inside of him, screaming and banging his fist on the wall, yanking at his hair repeatedly until there are strands slicing at his fingers, and even after his knuckles are split and his whole body aches from crying so hard, it still isn’t enough, because a strange hole has opened inside of him and it feels like nothing except Scorpius can ever get rid of it.

Blindly, he stumbles forward until he makes it to his bed, throwing himself onto it. Instinctively, his body curls into a tight, tiny ball, his knees cradled against his chest as he heaves more and more sobs into them. The sheets are cold against his skin, and he wills himself to focus on the sharp sensation as he tries to calm himself, deepening his breaths and furling and unfurling his fist.

1, 2, 3, he inhales and exhales in sequence until he’s coherent enough to sit up, rubbing at his damp eyes with one hand and prodding at the tight knot at the base of his throat with the other. There’s some approximation of sunlight beaming into the room through the window, but it holds none of the warmth of actual sunlight—it’s nothing more than ribbons of yellow saturation bleeding into the dark room. Still, he reaches out, catches a ray on the top of his hand and lets it rest, glowing against his dark skin.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, watching artificial light travel across his skin, shifting his focus on something other than the crushing regret waiting to ensnare him as soon as he rejoins reality. For now, though, he’s miles away from that thought. All he can think about is avoiding that moment, the pinpointed second in which he has to look at Scorpius’s face and Scorpius will look back at his, and there will be nothing but a ruined and fragile little knot between the two of them, strained and fraying.

Hours pass. He changes from position to position on his bed, staring blankly at the walls around him. It briefly occurs to him that someone might grow worried—he never skips class, and neither he nor Scorpius are ever seen without the other close by—but he can’t bring himself to care. He’d much rather worry all the people he knows than be seen like this.

Besides, someone will figure out where he is eventually. Probably Scorpius, and he’ll come and stand in front of the door and say something stupid, like _I’m sorry._ Albus will let him in, probably, and he’ll say something stupid too, something like _It’s alright._

Just then, there’s a knock on the door, and he almost smiles.

“Albus? Are you—are you in there? I asked this infernal room to help me find you and I’m not sure if it did or if I’m just yelling at a door, but please, please come out here, I need to—”

Albus opens the door. He must look terrible, because Scorpius’s face falls even more, and he blinks, his fist still raised to knock again.

“...talk to you,” Scorpius finishes meekly, lowering his hand.

They lock eyes for a moment, and Albus can feel it coming, like an unforgiving tidal wave just waiting to drag him under a current that he’s helpless against. _I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry._

“Albus, I’m in love with you,” Scorpius says, brokenly.

 _Oh_ , Albus thinks. That wasn’t what he was expecting.

“And I’m not just saying that because you said it to me first, or to make you feel better—I am simultaneously the happiest and saddest person on the earth, Al, because guess what? You love me back! You do, but as soon as you said it, it was like something inside of you broke, and I—did I do something—I mean, does it hurt you to love me?”

His lips are parted, quivering gently as tears spill over his lashes and onto his smooth skin, glinting in the low light. His hair is mussed like he’s been tugging at it, and his whole body is flushed, blotches of a deep red on his brown skin—Albus thinks that this is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and he can’t bring himself to look down to see the ground crumbling beneath him, so he just waits for the dream to end, to continue falling through that nothingness until he reaches the bottom of whatever it is that tethers him to the beautiful and rare idea of Scorpius loving him back.

Does it hurt? he repeats in his head, over and over. Does it hurt? Does it hurt?

“You’re lovely,” Albus whispers. “I can’t stand the thought of not being in love with you. Every single person I ever met, every kiss and every crush and every boyfriend—they were all just some proxy of you, something close enough to make me feel like this lovely creature living in my head could ever be _real_. I only ever hated any moment that I didn’t spend with you.”

Scorpius smiles, and he laughs, sadly, and he says, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I never kissed you. I would’ve—if I’d known, Al, if I’d known.”

“You know now,” Albus says, pulling Scorpius further into the room and swinging the door shut behind him. “We’ve got time. A lot of it.”

“And a lot to make up for,” Scorpius adds, stepping closer and resting his hand gently on the curve of Albus's waist. His palm is warm, and his hand is big enough to curve a little around the side of Albus's body. No one’s ever touched him like that before, never so gentle, as though they cared about the skin underneath the palms of their hands.

“What are we waiting for?” he murmurs in reply, and then they’re kissing, and the ground is still, and it’s languid and slow and unlike anything he’s ever felt before—

He smiles into the kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
